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Emily Dickinson - “Hope” is the thing with feathers—
Work rating: High

	Hope is the thing with feathers
	That perches in the soul,
	And sings the tune without the words,
	And never stops at all,

	And sweetest in the gale is heard;
	And sore must be the storm
	That could abash the little bird
	That kept so many warm.

	I`ve heard it in the chillest land,
	And on the strangest sea;
	Yet, never, in extremity,
	It asked a crumb of me.
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